Four Rings for the Elven Kings
by Claudi007
Summary: AU: After the death of Elladan, Elrohir does everything within his power and the power of a Ring to change the course of fate.
1. Default Chapter

Elladan was dead. An orcish arrow, thick and graceless and smeared with a foul black paste, had pierced his neck. Within seconds he had fallen from his horse, and had succumbed to death a mercifully short time after that. Elrohir had seen it in the very corner of his eye, though at the time he had not registered what had just taken place. It would be impossible for Elladan, the braver of the two, the stronger, always the first to ride into battle, to fall. And so, it didn't happen. At least to Elrohir's mind. 

But now that it was finished, now that every wretched orc in the host had been slaughtered, only Elrohir remained standing. He stopped where he stood, listening to his own heavy breath, and looked for his brother. But he looked to the wrong place. Elladan no longer stood at his full height, and could not be seen while Elrohir looked to see his eyes. Now, he was nothing more than one of the poor corpses fallen as leaves to cover the hard and half-charred ground. His blood fled his body in a widening pool to be tainted and ruined by the vile blood of orcs before it sank into the earth. Elrohir knelt down beside him, knees and feet cursed by that blood that had an hour earlier been so close to his own, and choked on his breath. 

Elladan was dead. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

No-one could fault Elrond for his behaviour. Less than forty years had passed since the death of Celebrían, and now his eldest son was dead at the hands of those who had killed his wife. He screamed in anguish and then refused to speak, beat his fists against the walls and then lay as one dead himself. Glorfindel's words offered little comfort and did no good. 

Elrohir could only sit and watch, frozen and still even disbelieving. Erestor's hand lay on his shoulder but it was a distant, wooden presence that he scarcely noticed. His mind was bound to Elladan. This was the fate of his twin, whom he would never see, never speak to, never smile at, never fight with again over some truly stupid little thing, like he always did. In the morning, Elladan would never again be there at the breakfast table to complain when Elrohir used the last of the honey. He wouldn't be there at noon to pretend that he didn't hear the dinner call so that he and Elrohir could continue their argument about the speed of their horses. He would no longer come to supper in dirty and torn clothes simply because he knew it made their father scowl. 

And Elladan's bed was empty, as it would now always be. Elrohir dreaded the sight of the grey and cold room as he walked the corridor. But he stopped in the door, a familiar movement made strange by circumstance. His fingers pressed against the wall. A pristine bed in sad twilight blue was all he saw. Some of Elladan's things still mocked the room, but they were small and hidden from the sight of one who looked only for his brother. 

Elrond found him there after hours had passed. Neither spoke, but Elrond sat beside Elrohir and covered his shoulders with a tentative and desperate arm. Elrohir leaned back against his father. Somehow, after more hours, they found themselves lying down, each clinging to the presence of the other. And somehow they slept, fitfully and plagued by torturously pleasant dreams. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Elrohir woke while Elrond still slept. His father's arm was draped across his shoulder in such a way that Elrond's hand just rested its fingertips on the mattress inches from Elrohir's face. The thin fingers cast long shadows in the morning light, shaded lines interrupted only by the mass of the Ring. It had belonged to Gil-galad once, Elrohir knew. It had been crafted by Celebrimbor, who was aided by Sauron "Annatar", as one of the four Rings of the Elves. Its etched gold band held a strange spherical stone of shining black and green. 

Lúmya, it was called, the Ring of Time. When Sauron's forces had threatened Eregion so many years ago, Celebrimbor sent the ring to Gil-galad, who later passed it on to Elrond. The three other Rings were also hidden, with Nenya going to Galadriel, Vilya to Amdír, and Narya to Oropher. When Amdír fell in the Last Alliance Vilya had been taken by Círdan, who kept it yet. But Narya had been lost with its master. Oropher, charging recklessly into battle against Gil-galad's call, had been surrounded and overwhelmed by the orcs of Sauron. They had taken it and kept it for their own. 

Narya was the source of their power now. The ring made the orcs grow stronger than they had ever been under Sauron's rule, strong enough to leave Mordor altogether and found their dark kingdoms throughout Eriador and the south. Rohan fell to the orcs after long years of war, and the people of Gondor were all but pushed into the sea. Now Lórien threatened to fall and when it did, Imladris would not be far behind. 

Elrohir knew his father's worries. Elrond's ring, the most powerful of the four, could offer some protection and a measure of hope. But it would not make the valley invincible. There were cracks in the defences and flaws in the strategies of those who worked to keep the armies of the orcs out. After enough time, even the most secure of the Elven realms would be ended. So long as the orcs held Narya, their power was secured and defeat was inevitable. There were simply not enough Elves to fight this war. 

The previous day, this thought would have made Elrohir's spirit burn with the bright flame of defiance, and he and Elladan would have ridden to prove that Elves were not so easily overpowered. Hiding among the trees, striking from unexpected points, they had learned to use the landscape to their advantage and could manage a horde of thirty between them. Elladan always claimed he killed more. On this day though the prospect of defeat seemed to Elrohir to be too terribly real. Elladan had fallen, and another would follow: Glorfindel, Erestor, Elrond, or Elrohir himself, until none were left. 

A sick and heavy feeling stuck in Elrohir's chest at the simple thought of this eventuality. The valley, now vibrant green, would burn and blacken under the iron tread of the orcs. Those that he loved would continue to die off, one by one. Inwardly, Elrohir screamed to himself to keep hope and refuse the weakness of despair, but the more primitive force of emotion beat reason into the ground. He exhaled in graceless sobs and clutched at his father's hand. 

The Ring, Lúmya, was almost hot against his fingers. 

The Ring worked tirelessly, Elrond had said once, exerting all the force it could manage to keep the valley secure. But still, that was not the Ring's true power. 

What could it truly do, then? Elrohir pulled Elrond's hand closer, careful not to wake him. The Ring sparkled in the sunlight. He caressed the smooth stone. _What is it that you can do?_ he silently asked. _Surely there must be a purpose to Rings? You cannot be solely for defence, or we here would not be in so poor a position. Are you for power, then? You are called the Rings of Power, are you not? Is that why the orcs have such strength with only Narya in their keeping? They use their Ring for force, while we use ours in our ever-passive place. Narya is an aggressive Ring, but could Lúmya not be as well? Could our position be improved if I took you and used you for power?_

A small voice, his reasonable voice, answered the question as quickly as it had been posed. _No,_ it said, _they are still too many, and we are too few. Even with the Ring we would die, as Oropher and Amdír did. They were not protected by any power, nor did their Rings grant them any power. We would fall too, and the orcs would take Lúmya._

_Then why,_ he debated, _are the orcs so strong with their Ring, while we have no way to stand against them with ours? They have their power, and such power it is, killing and ruining and burning. They control the power of Fire._

Then, Elrohir stopped as his breath hitched. The orcs had Narya, the Ring of Fire. They were backed by the violence and terror of flame, overpowering and all-destroying. They knew their Ring's true power and abused it without conscience. The Ring had granted no protection to Oropher because he did not use its advantages. Narya demanded a crueller master. Lórien, though, still stood after centuries of war because Nenya, the Water Ring, protected its borders. No fire could cross the sacred streams so long as Galadriel's hand reigned. 

And then there was Imladris, the timeless valley, which in peacetime before the orcs had risen had been a refuge for the weary and aged to recover their health and prolong failing lives. Under the Ring's influence, time slowed and life grew leisurely. That was its true power, Elrohir realised. Lúmya had no love for war or power, defence or submission. It would give no certain aid in this war- time could do nothing against fire but outlast it. The Ring could help the Elves of the valley endure, but only so long as they could fight for themselves. Time was indifferent to good or evil. 

But still another thought nagged at the back of Elrohir's mind. Rumours existed of a power afforded the orcs by their ring, seldom seen but well known in the collective fear of the few remaining free realms of Middle-earth. Those who had seen it spoke of a crushing inferno great enough to swallow entire cities and hot enough to melt the very stone of the mountains, a fire that burned relentlessly even days after all in its path had been reduced to chalky ash. Minas Tirith had been ruined utterly by such a fire, and the greater part of Fangorn Forest. Survivors spoke with a hollow fear of what they had seen, or didn't speak at all. 

One Ring, Narya, had the power to do all this. Its bearer could create a blaze out of nothing and destroy recklessly with only thought and will as fuel. And Vilya had the same power. This Elrohir had once seen for himself, as Círdan brought howling winds down from the sky to stir the sea into a storm and break hideous orcish boats upon the waves. He suspected Nenya could do the same without wind. But what of Lúmya? 

The Ring of Time, it was called. An absurd smile spread on Elrohir's lips. Narya controlled fire, Vilya air, and Nenya water. None of them had ever been called more powerful than Lúmya. Was it not then reasonable to assume that Lúmya's name was given as truthfully as the others? Could Lúmya, by this logic, not control the very flow of time? 

Scarcely daring even to breath, Elrohir took his father's hand gently in his own. Then, slowly as he could manage, he slipped the Ring from Elrond's finger. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Elrohir recognised the place when they came to it. The path was narrow now, but less than a quarter-mile ahead it widened into a clearing. There, with little warning, a troupe of orcs would meet them head-on. A frenzied battle would erupt, and before it ended Elladan would be dead. 

Elrohir knew the outcome. He had lived it the previous day right through to the terrible end. Now, with a second chance, he would not see it lived again. "We ought to turn back now," he called out. 

Elladan, riding ahead on the path, slowed his horse and glanced back over his shoulder. "Now?" He glanced up at the sky. "It is mid-afternoon only; we have hours yet before nightfall. And we are only a short way from home. We can ride a while longer." 

"Then let us ride a different way," said Elrohir. "I do not like the look of this path. We should turn south, down that trail we passed not long ago." 

Elladan frowned. "I can neither see nor feel anything wrong here. And we have not been this way in a long time; I would like to know where the path goes. Besides, we are well-armed. There is little danger so close to home." Facing forward again he urged his horse on toward the clearing. 

"Elladan, please!" Elrohir called, as loud as he dared in the quiet woods. "I do not want to go this way! It gives me an uneasy feeling. I can sense danger here. This path will lead to nothing but an evil end, I am sure of that. Please, let us turn back." 

Laughing, Elladan slowed again and turned back to face him. "Are you now blessed with foresight, brother, to know what the future will be?" 

Elrohir said nothing in reply. 

"Come," Elladan continued, "we will go only a little further and I will show you that there is nothing to fear." 

"I will not go," Elrohir flatly stated. "Nor will you. We will turn around and return home. Please, Elladan, you must listen to me. And do not ask how, but I know that-" 

He abruptly silenced himself as Elladan raised his hand and gave a sharp glance down toward the end of the path. Not far away, a low and ugly horn sounded to penetrate the clean forest air. The noise was accompanied by the muted but growing clamour of many iron feet as they scuffed the ground and broke the green things that grew there. 

"Orcs!" was all Elladan said before he took off at a gallop down the narrow path. 

"Elladan, wait!" In a second Elrohir bolted after his brother, dodging sagging trees and ducking under low-hanging branches. "There are too many! We must turn back and call for help-" 

"No!" Elladan shouted back. "There is no time! They could have the whole valley alight in minutes! We must stop them now and not suffer any of their filth so close to our home!" 

A moment later he flew out from the forest path and into the clearing, which had already started to burn with the fire of the orcs. Elrohir followed close behind. Almost immediately, they were surrounded. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Elrohir sat up all that night on a wooden bench outside Elladan's bedroom. The death of a brother was no easier to take the second time. Beyond the door, Elrond alternately slept and sobbed on the bed. Friends filed past nervously, unsure of what to say or think or do. No-one shared the acute stabbing pain of Elrond and his remaining son, but they still mourned the loss. Everyone seemed tired and weak. 

Gandalf, who had always been a comforting presence, was now reduced to simply another sad body. He sat down heavily beside Elrohir and for a long time neither spoke. "I had hoped to bring good news," Gandalf eventually said. "Though I see I've come at the wrong time." 

"Oh?" said Elrohir. 

Gandalf nodded. "I've been in Lórien this past while. The siege is ended now, and in our favour. The orcs that weren't killed have been forced back into the south." He paused, then sighed. "Though no-one can say they won't return to start the cycle again." 

"Hmm," Elrohir said quietly. "How is my sister?" 

"Ah, she is well," Gandalf replied, and he smiled. "She sends her love, as always. I brought a letter from her for your father." 

Elrohir gave a weak smile in return. "He will be glad of that." 

Gandalf nodded again and allowed another short silence before placing a soft hand on Elrohir's shoulder and bending closer to his ear. "It's no easier to bear a second time, is it?" he asked in a low voice. 

Immediately Elrohir's face snapped up to look at him. "What?" he hissed, and almost choked on the word. 

Slowly Gandalf leaned back to rest his head against the wall and look down at Elrohir with concerned eyes. "The Ring," he said. "You used the Ring to try and change your brother's fate. You have lived this day before, to the same end." 

Elrohir was quiet for a long, tense moment before speaking again. "How do you know?" he asked in a shaky voice. 

"A Wizard can tell," Gandalf said simply. He gave a strange, sad half-smile. "As can the Powers in the West. We know all interruptions in the flow of time, when a day is repeated or when it is skipped, just as plainly as you who caused the interruption know. You have lived both days, and so have we. Time can never be undone. It can only be redone." 

"I... I do not understand," said Elrohir. 

"Time is a straight line, Elrohir, always moving forward. It cannot be stopped or erased any easier than you can erase the stars from the sky. The Ring has allowed you to relive a day in your life, and that is what you have done. Time has started again from that point. But the first version of that day can never be erased. It will always remain in the memory of some." 

Gandalf squeezed Elrohir's shoulder. "But," he said more kindly. "You do not need to understand. You need only know that, regardless of such interruptions, time will continue and find a way to complete its work. You cannot change fate. Everyone has his set path that cannot be changed so easily. For reasons that we will never know, it was your brother's fate to die today. It is his place in the world." 

Elrohir frowned, shaking his head. "I do not believe that." 

"But you must," said Gandalf. "You have seen yourself that the will of time cannot be altered. You can try again and live this day a thousand times, taking every precaution, but still Elladan will die. You must understand that once the path of fate is chosen, there is naught you can do to stop it. And it is for the best. You might not see that now, but Elladan has his part to play in the life of this world. As do you." "I do not see what part he can play by dying," Elrohir softly said. "Or what good it does to have him dead." He felt suddenly drained, as if defeated by this heavy realisation of the cruelty of fate. His eyes stung with the threat of tears. But Gandalf's hand slid around to his other shoulder, the Wizard's arm draping as a familiar, comforting weight across his back. 

"Perhaps there is no good," Gandalf said. "But it is not our place to judge. Not yet, at least." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

When Elrohir awoke he found Elrond's arm draped protectively around him as they lay together in the shelter of Elladan's bed. Elrond still slept, breathing calmly as he always did despite the twisting pain that Elrohir knew was still strong in his heart. The Ring shone from his finger. 

_I cannot change fate,_ Elrohir said to himself. _I could use this ring to relive yesterday over and over, and still accomplish nothing. Or so Gandalf says._

He reached out to touch the Ring, to stroke it. It was as warm as it had been the previous day, or the previous attempt at this current day. The stone gleamed. Elrohir bit his lip. 

_I cannot change one day,_ he thought. _But perhaps I can change many..._

Orcs, they say, came from Elves. Aeons ago, before time was measured, they say Elves had been taken by the darkness. Over time, they became orcs. Over more time, the orcs multiplied and changed and became the hideous creatures that ever after plagued the Elves. And finally, the orcs had killed Elladan. 

Elrohir smiled. He could see his reflection ghosted in the stone of the ring. If Elladan was killed by orcs, and the event could not be undone, there was only one simple solution. All Elrohir had to do was prevent the race of orcs from existing. 

Again, and with the greatest care, he slid the Ring from Elrond's finger. 


	2. Four Rings 2

The stars had never been this bright in Imladris. Even in the darkest hours of night, long after the sun had gone and long before she would rise again, the stars were ever pale silver lights in the far distance, a gentle presence of magic and awe rather than givers of firm light. But here in the vast empty plains of some unknown land the sky was bright as early dawn. This is how it was, Elrohir realised, in the beginning, at the first coming of Elves before Anor and Ithil graced the skies. This was the beginning.  
  
All around him, as far as the horizon, Elrohir could see only the wild lands of ancient times. There was no sign of civilisation: no villages, no farms, no roads. Only a narrow path of lightly trampled grass altered the landscape, though it could have been made by animals. It came from his right, which he guessed by the stars to be the west, and continued on curving toward sparse aspen bluffs some miles to the north-east. Far in the west along the horizon stood the dark outline of a forest; if the path ran straight, it would lead there. Elrohir turned to his right.  
  
With no sun or moon to mark the hours, the passage of time was impossible to tell. Still though Elrohir supposed it took him the equivalent of half a day to reach the edge of the forest. In that time, he had seen no evidence of Elves. Deer had gazed at him curiously before bounding away, and skittish rabbits had leapt to safety in the tall grasses. But there were no Elves on this prairie. No sign of Elves, and nothing Elvish to be seen.  
  
A thin sense of danger, a small warning, began to twist in the back of Elrohir's mind. Something here was wrong. Not the absence of Elves, but something entirely different. Something was about to happen. He could feel it, and he dreaded it. As he stood at the edge of the forest, a hot wind came howling down out of the north, crying prophecies that made Elrohir's face pale and his blood cold. With the wind came a glittering cloud of black dust. As the air settled into a terrible unnerving calm, the dust gathered into a tall Elvish form robed in black. Elrohir pressed further into the trees, as far as he dared move. And he whispered, "Elbereth," but the word fell dull as a stone to absent ears and brought no comfort. The Lady could not hear him, so far lost in this distant time and place.  
  
Elrond had told him once, in a grave and defeated voice, that in the beginning Elves had been lured by the servants of the Dark. They were taken into the north and robbed of their pure lives, becoming in turn as evil as the evil that had taken them. In time, they were twisted into the orcs that would forever plague Middle-earth. But now, in this altered history, the darkness had not yet come and the orcs did not yet live. A second chance had been provided in which the world could be cured. Slowly, Elrohir drew an arrow.  
  
Sauron himself stood within clear view. The sight of him was alone enough to instil such a fear that made Elrohir's body shake and his stomach clench. His mouth felt dry as sand. But still he fitted the arrow to his bow and, with a measured slowness, pulled the string taut as his weakened fingers would allow. Before him, Sauron cocked his head and sniffed the air. He peered to the south. Elrohir sighted along the arrow, breath shivering, stomach turning, heart speeding. Sauron took a step, and loudly sniffed the air again. Then even as Elrohir shakily inhaled in a final preparation to take his shot, voices at his back made his concentration hitch. He slackened his bow as Sauron's gaze turned sharply toward the sound.  
  
The words were strange, but their sound and cadences familiar. These were Elvish voices. And they grew louder, chattering happily, even as they emerged from the forest not far from where Sauron stood. Then they stopped, not frightened but curious. There were five of them, Elrohir saw, hunters dressed in skins and grass and carrying long spears. The largest had the carcass of a small deer draped across his shoulders, while others carried rabbits and foxes. The only female among them balanced a large basket on her head.  
  
Sauron grinned a wicked grin and raised his hands in welcome. Then though he spoke, and spoke in the primitive tongue, his invitation was clear enough to gather from only the sweet sound of honeyed voice and the beckoning gestures of his arms. _Come with me,_ he sang in words that transformed themselves plain as day for Elrohir's ears. He sang in all languages at once, straight to the minds of his audience. _Come with me and I will show you a grand new world that you have not imagined!_  
  
The curious Elves leaned forward to better look at him.  
  
_Come now, and I promise you a new life in a land of joy, where you need never be hungry or weary or sad..._  
  
As Sauron spoke, Elrohir felt the urgency of his mission wane. The dark thoughts that had been troubling him faded and blurred. The icy chill in his heart became a hazily remembered shadow, and with it went all desire for revenge. Elrohir could only stand, listening greedily to that perfect voice. Something flickered in the back of his memory, a small thought that he could not fully recall, but it seemed to be of little importance. All he cared for now was the singing voice.  
  
Sauron's words lilted on. _I will show you beauty, and power, and the secrets of this world. I will give you freedom from troubles and fear. You need only come with me, and I will share with you my knowledge._  
  
But when Sauron stepped forward, holding out his hand to the leader of the hunters, his fiery bright eyes flashed in the starlight and gleamed a cruel orange. It was only for a second that the true form gleamed, but Elrohir gasped, and the trance on him was broken. There was no more glittering speech to stifle senses, only a fiend sent from the darkness for a foul purpose. With all his speed, Elrohir raised again his bow and let the arrow fly.  
  
It struck Sauron squarely below his shoulder, pinning his arm to his side even as he raised it to the hunters. He screamed in pain or shock or anger, his voice no longer fair but evil and terrible, a sound unlike any the Elves had ever heard. They shrank back in fear away from the noise, voicing confused shrieks of their own and falling to the grass as they stumbled toward the safety of the forest. Two held their spears pointed at Sauron, who now writhed and twisted as he worked to pull out the arrow and identify his attacker. It took him less than seconds to notice a figure half-hidden in the light foliage.  
  
His eyes locked on Elrohir, whose skin had already begun to crawl again with sickening fear. A hideous glimpse of Sauron's true spirit seemed to ripple across his face before the features settled back into a close but somehow unnerving reproduction of Elvish beauty. He hissed in hatred, but also confusion, as he stared at Elrohir.  
  
_Who are you, Elf?_ his silent mind asked Elrohir's.  
  
_I am not an Elf,_ Elrohir replied.  
  
Sauron's gaze grew angrier as it scoured Elrohir's form and noted the truth. Here was one who seemed an Elf, but also carried the spark of the Maiar, and then held a third part of something entirely different and unknown. Sauron had never before encountered such a one. He took a defensive step backward and hissed again. _Who sent you?_ he asked.  
  
_I sent myself,_ said Elrohir, _to protect these whom you would harm. I know your purpose here._  
  
Sauron stepped further backward, hissing loudly to himself. He glanced quickly between the Elves and Elrohir, and back to the Elves. As a warning, Elrohir strung another arrow and held it trained on Sauron's chest. Sauron bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes, slithering and hissing still as he looked from Elves to Elrohir. Then he turned suddenly toward the sky, letting out another hateful scream that filled Elrohir's head with a crashing voice and nearly caused him to fall to his knees. _You cannot protect them all!  
  
I will,_ said Elrohir. He called upon all his courage, all his potence, and all the urgency of his mission. Elladan- this was for Elladan. For all the Elves of Arda. He had this one chance to shift the flow of history, and he would not fail. Whether it was that thought that warmed him, or some latent power of his Maia blood, Elrohir felt his body begin to fill with a glowing strength. His fear was gone, replaced by calm confidence. _I will,_ he repeated, and he heard his voice had grown to match Sauron's in every measure of goodness for evil. The arrow in his hand gleamed with pale silver light. _I will protect these people, to whatever end, by any power that lives in me! You will not harm them!_  
  
Sauron's hellish scream rose again, but it was weak and faded quickly. His plan had been broken, interrupted by an unexpected force. What strength this stranger had, Sauron did not know. But he would not risk confrontation- not yet. Just as he had come, his body grew ghostly thin and swirled into a black cloud that fled into the north on a sudden howling wind. The arrow, now twisted and charred, dropped to the ground. The Elves cried aloud in fear and buried their faces in the grass.  
  
After a moment Elrohir shakily stepped out from the trees. His power and light had left him; he felt small and fearful once more. He looked at the Elves, who cowered where they lay and stared up at him with frightened eyes. Slowly, he knelt down beside them and held up his hands.  
  
"Do not be afraid," he said softly; "I will not harm you. My name is Elrohir." He placed a hand flat against his chest, gesturing to himself, and repeated, "Elrohir."  
  
The most decorated of the hunters raised his head enough to look at Elrohir suspiciously.  
  
Elrohir repeated the gesture and his name, more slowly. "El-ro-hir."  
  
The hunter, still wary and uncertain, touched his own chest. "Kûan," he said.  
  
Elrohir nodded. "Kûan."  
  
Kûan sat up on his heels, his eyes never leaving Elrohir as he motioned to the other members of his group. The one at his side was Gatta, and next to Gatta was Eleya. The tallest of the group, who still held his spear, was Lâdan. The female's name was Tâcha.  
  
Looking them over with a small smile, Elrohir stood again. Kûan stood as well, and then the rest of the Elves. Lâdan lowered his spear but kept it ready in his hand. Tâcha gathered together the eggs that had fallen from her basket. Some of them had broken, and she made a disapproving noise. As she worked, and as Gatta and Eleya picked up the things they had dropped, Elrohir spoke to Kûan's mind as he had spoken to Sauron.  
  
_You are not safe here,_ he said. _The dark one could return. Where is your village?_  
  
Kûan stepped back suddenly, eyes wide at the new sensation of hearing words with his mind and not his ears. But after a moment he gestured to the forest, waving his hand as if to signify far away.  
  
_We must go there,_ said Elrohir. _If you lead, I will follow you. We must go quickly._  
  
Kûan slowly nodded. Then he spoke aloud to the others, telling them what Elrohir had said. Elrohir listened to the strange words that held vague hints of his own language, and found that while he could not understand the exact speech, the meaning of Kûan's words was plain enough to him. Kûan told his companions that he did not know who Elrohir was, but still he trusted him. They would take Elrohir back to the village.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
It was a long walk through the forest back to Cuiviénen, with Elrohir following close behind Kûan until they emerged from the trees near a lakeside village. Then the others quickly departed, hurrying back to their homes to tell the strange tale of what had just happened, leaving Kûan to lead Elrohir alone. The two passed between rows of small wood and skin huts, work sites and cooking fires as they made their way to what Elrohir assumed would be Kûan's own home.  
  
All the way Elrohir was uncomfortably aware of the shock his presence caused. As he passed, villagers stopped what they were doing to openly stare. Some dropped their work of weaving or spear-making to follow curiously behind. Others seemed to ask Kûan who this strange guest was. But Kûan said nothing, only smiling in reply. He continued to walk ahead until he reached one of the larger huts on the edge of the settlement. By the time they arrived, Elrohir guessed that fifty or more Elves were following behind them in wonder.  
  
Kûan stepped inside, motioning for Elrohir to follow. Elrohir had to duck to get in the door, and then stoop slightly once inside to avoid hitting his head on the thin beams that supported the skin roof. The hut was short and small but, as Elrohir had noticed, so were these Elves. He was easily taller than any in the village. Lâdan, who had noticeably been the tallest of the hunters, stood barely higher than Elrohir's chin. The top of Kûan's head was roughly level with Elrohir's shoulder.  
  
He sat on the floor of the hut, covered in grass mats and skins. Kûan sat to face him, smiling expectantly. Elrohir's mind raced. What would he say to these Elves? How could he keep them from harm? It was simple enough to tell them not to listen to Sauron, but little good that would do when Elrohir himself had been caught in the spell of the Maia's enchanting words. And they could not live strictly within the confines of the village; they had to hunt somewhere. As far as he could reason, the only way to ensure safety would be to confront Sauron and discourage him from coming back. They would have to fight.  
  
_You have seen a new danger today,_ Elrohir began slowly, speaking again into Kûan's mind. _And it will return. Just as you hunt beasts in the forest, so it will hunt you. And should it catch you, your end will be worse tenfold than that of the poor stag._  
  
Kûan's smile slowly faded into a look of concern. Elrohir continued, _We must warn the others, all of them, about this danger. And then we must prepare to face it. For unless we fight, and let it see that we will not stand idle and accept its evil, it will return again and again as a constant plague on the Elves of Cuiviénen._  
  
"What must we do?" Kûan asked, or seemed to ask. Elrohir could not tell what his exact words were.  
  
_I will teach you,_ said Elrohir. _You have spears for hunting, and those will serve well, but more must be done still. More weapons can be made, and your villages need defences. You must learn how to fight to defend yourselves. I will teach you._  
  
As he finished, the hut's skin door was pulled back and a woman entered. She was small and fragile-looking to Elrohir's eyes, smaller than Kûan, and heavily pregnant. A long silver plait fell down her back. Kûan smiled, inviting her to sit beside him. "Nenlê," he said proudly to Elrohir, and Elrohir guessed that to be her name. She was Kûan's wife.  
  
_For her,_ Elrohir said. _For her, and your child, you must fight. And you must help me rally the others. It is the only hope._  
  
Slowly, Kûan nodded in acceptance.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
The days passed, if they could be called days. Kûan and the Elves went to sleep when they were tired, and woke when they were rested. They had an established pattern that seemed to correspond closely enough to the days in Elrohir's world, though there was no changing light to guide them. But over these days Elrohir helped them make spears and stone knives, and bows and arrows. He counted days into months, and over the months he taught them how to better use their primitive weapons. The months added into years, and he planned sturdy fences around the villages, built of tree-boles stuck down into the earth at the bottom and burned into hard, sharp points at the top. Still Sauron did not come. The Elves saw no sign of him, and none went missing. And with every passing day, Elrohir's hope of ever returning to his own time faded.  
  
The Ring was gone. When he came back into this time, he saw that it had disappeared from his finger. The same thing had happened, he realised, when he had gone back to the day Elladan was killed. He had no way of controlling a return to the future. Whether he would be forced to live out the entire history of Elves or if he would return to his own time once that history had been changed, he did not know. But for now all he could do was wait and make the best of his time by teaching the Elves of Cuiviénen all he knew about the art of war.  
  
In the time he had been there, the huts had been consolidated into three villages around the lake, divided mainly by tribe with each village taking the tribe's name: Banjâ, Ngoldô, and Lindâ. Lindâ, where Kûan lived and where the majority of Elrohir's instruction took place, was the largest. It was built on a rocky hillside, close to where a series of small waterfalls fell down over short cliffs and fed the lake. The fence that surrounded it was tall, three times the height of any Elf, with several landings around the perimeter, connected by catwalks. The side of the fence that reached the lake was open to allow for the docking of fishing boats and rafts. Ngoldô, the second largest, sat further inland near the borders of the forest, while Banjâ was situated along the banks of a stream that flowed southward out of the lake. All were within shouting distance of each other.  
  
Each village's fence had several gates, which remained open at all times, save when Elrohir called a drill. Then the drum of Lindâ would sound, and the drums of Ngoldô and Banjâ would answer, and any Elves outside the village fences knew to hurry to safety. But these drills were few- one per month, or two months- and only came when Elrohir suspected the vigilance was slipping. Otherwise, the Elves were free to come and go as they wished, though none dared go too far.  
  
Twenty years passed, or so Elrohir counted, from the time he arrived until the threat of Sauron returned. In those twenty years, Kûan's son, Nôwê, had grown from baby to toddler to child. He was taller than most children his age, despite the relative smallness of his parents, and he followed after Elrohir with all the seriousness and dedication of a trained soldier. At age twenty he was already proving himself to be one of the best carvers in the village, turning out a perfectly straight arrow in half the time it took his uncle Ajanwê, an accomplished craftsman himself, to do the same task. Nôwê was making arrows on the night Sauron returned. Night, Elrohir thought, because as the child dropped a newly-finished arrow into his birch quiver, he yawned sleepily and slumped against Elrohir's shoulder.  
  
The two of them were sitting up on a landing together, Nôwê crafting arrows while Elrohir used a sharp flint-edge to work a piece of wood into a knife handle. They had been there some time, and Nôwê was ready for sleep. He leaned into Elrohir's body as he looking down at his collection of arrows, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face. It made Elrohir smile too, just to look at this child, his student, as dear to him as his own family back in his own time. He scarcely thought of them any more. Nôwê, Kûan and Nenlê were his family now. Gently, he reached down to brush the few stray hairs back from Nôwê's forehead. As if in response, Nôwê's head rolled sleepily to the side and he yawned again. Elrohir grinned. He held Nôwê tighter as he leaned back against the fence, staring up at the dim sky and its thousands of bright stars.  
  
There was a cool wind, blowing colder, and a bit of dark cloud passed overhead. A strange cloud, Elrohir thought, small and alone, and low in the air. It moved quickly, but it moved with the wind. Elrohir watched it, squinting to follow its movement in the far-off darkness. It seemed of little concern until it stopped, hanging for a moment in the sky before reversing direction and heading back toward the village.  
  
In that dread moment, as Elrohir froze at the realisation of what was about to happen, the alarm sounded in Banjâ. Within moments the three villages blazed with the light of torches as frightened and confused Elves crushed to see what was happening. Nôwê, now wide awake, stood at Elrohir's side. Neither spoke as they stared up at the sky. Around them, warning beacons flared and the drums pounded a relentless rhythm.  
  
The story spread quickly. A strange figure, similar to an Elf but somehow alien, had been spotted by two sisters as went down to the stream to fetch water. Whether this was the threat that Elrohir had warned of they did not know, but before he could speak they had turned and run back to safety of the village fence to raise the alarm. Now all three villages stood alert and at watch, waiting to see what would happen. Some muttered about a false alarm, but as Elrohir watched the cloud crawl slowly across the sky, he knew for certain that this threat was very real. After years of planning and plotting and biding his time, Sauron had returned.  
  
A long time passed before he landed, and in that time, Elves grew impatient. All along the catwalks, Elrohir could see hunters fingering their spears and arrows, restlessly watching the sky as they waited for a real target to present itself. Kûan, who had come to stand beside his son, gripped Nôwê's shoulders nervously. But it seemed that the more battle-eager they grew, the more cautious Sauron's cloud became. A small thrill shot through Elrohir's mind at this; Sauron was hesitant. He hadn't expected such vigilance from the Elves, and now his plan was ruined. The Elves had that advantage over him.  
  
When he landed at last, it was before the gate of Lindâ. He stood plainly before them, as he had appeared to Kûan and the hunters years before, and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. Those on the catwalk leaned over the edge to better look at him, while those left below peered eagerly through chinks in the fence. Sauron bowed low before all who watched. _I come before you with friendship and love_ he spoke in his voice of all languages. _Why do you face me with such hostility?_  
  
_You come before us with lies and terror,_ Elrohir answered, _and we will not have you. Your evil is known in these lands. 'Sauron' we have named you, 'the foul one'! We will not suffer you to poison our lives!_  
  
Sauron's sweet smile did not waver. _Poison?_ he said. _No my friends, you misjudge me. I am here to help and teach you. Will you not even listen to what I offer? Here, invite me in, for a moment only. And then, if my words are not to your liking, you may refuse me, and I will leave. Will you not at least grant me the courtesy of your ears?_  
  
_We will grant you no courtesy,_ Elrohir answered again.  
  
_And who are you to think for all, Elf?_ Sauron asked. _Do your fellows have no say?_ He turned to look left to right, over the row of stern faces staring down at him from the high fence. _Can you not speak for yourselves, or must this one answer for many?_  
  
A questioning murmur spread through the gathered throng. Many looked to each other uncertainly, and to Elrohir. Some frowned as they considered Sauron's argument while others began to nod in agreement. As Elrohir watched their resolve crack under Sauron's enchantment, anger welled in his chest. The deceit, the same treachery used anew, filled him with a smouldering defiance and he looked down to Sauron with flashing eyes. He felt the confident power that had risen in him at their first meeting slowly awaken once again. With all his effort, he concentrated on helping it grow.  
  
_I speak for all because I alone have seen the future,_ he said. He put forth all his strength into his words, sparing no measure to raise his voice to the level of Sauron's as he spoke into the minds of all. _You come from the black pits of Utumno in the North as a servant of dark Melkor. You purpose to take these Elves back to your master, to corrupt them to his foul designs. You would destroy what is good and pure, just as Melkor destroyed the Lamps of the Valar and marred this world. Am I not right?_  
  
Sauron's smile faded. It was clear he was taken aback by Elrohir's words, and his look shifted from one of false humility to uncertainty.  
  
_You are curious how a mere Elf could know this,_ Elrohir continued, answering the question that Sauron had failed to voice. _Be that the case, I say again that I am no Elf. See! Am I not of the Maiar, as you? You can see it in me, though it is well-hidden by my guise! Hear the truth! I am a servant of the West, more powerful than you, and wiser, come by the blessings of Manwë himself to keep these Elves from harm! Your cruel plot is known to us! You must leave this land and not return, else war will be waged on you and your master! Go, Sauron Moriondur! You are not welcome here!_  
  
A dead silence followed. Sauron, faltering, looked up at the faces of the Elves, now stricken with awe and staring at Elrohir. None heeded him, and none looked at him. It was unexpected. He took a step back.  
  
Elrohir could feel the power leaving, draining away far more quickly than it had come. He felt suddenly exhausted. Whatever he had done, and however he had done it, had taken too much of his strength. Now only an aching, empty void was left. He leaned heavily against the fence, his legs suddenly too weak to support his weight. His arms, too, could do little more than slow his descent, and though he clung how he could to the posts, he soon fell into a slump on the catwalk.  
  
"Tor!" cried Nôwê, and he crouched down beside Elrohir with a look of panic on his face. Elrohir tried to speak, to reassure him, but he could form no words. He managed a small smile, then allowed his head to roll to the side. From the corner of his eye, through a gap between the fence-posts, he could see that Sauron was still standing before the gate. And to his horror, he saw a small flicker of fire grow in Sauron's hand.  
  
_You may carry the wisdom of the West,_ Sauron said. It seemed this time that he spoke directly, and only to Elrohir. _I carry the power to destroy, with the ceaseless hunger of fire._ He smiled, a terrible, cruel smirk, as the flicker grew into a ball of flame. He held it out before him as a twisted offering. It rolled from hand to hand, spinning as it went and growing ever larger as Sauron toyed with it.  
  
Elrohir was powerless. He wanted to stand, or fight, or shout a command to shoot, or even scream like a child, but his body was too weak. Kûan looked down at him, silently pleading for any guidance or leadership, but he could give nothing. His eyes began to fog and lose focus even as Nôwê shook in in desperation. _Sleep..._ something told him, _I must sleep..._ Sauron's fire still danced. It was only a hazy blur at the edge of his vision, but he could hear its muted roar as it grew. _Kûan... he must do something..._  
  
Kûan could have heard the silent wish, or he could have acted out of chance alone. But above the hissing flame his clear voice rose, striking and pure, calling out to all who stood bravely against the enemy.  
  
"Kwendî Kuiwênenhô! Â-jotjulâ as â-maktâ ndan-Thaurân! Â-barjâ i ndôro!"  
  
The battle-cry rang out over the host of hunters, and behind it came a loud cheer. In that moment, all arrows were loosed into the fire. If some from unpractised hands missed their mark, then there were others in greater numbers to strike true, and a second volley followed. As arrows flew the fire dwindled, slowly at first but then as rapidly as if it had been doused. Then Kûan held up his hand to signal a halt.  
  
Sauron stood, but scarcely balanced, his body pierced with countless arrows. His face was frozen in a mask of shock. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but could make no sound; his throat had been shot through many times. He fell to his knees. The Elves watched in grim silence as he took one final look at his ruined body, the body which now failed him, and collapsed onto the singed earth. A black wisp rose like a ghost from the dead husk. It fled into the darkness of the North, toward some terrible safety perhaps, but in the least it was gone. The Elves had won. Cautiously, they turned to one another, and to Elrohir.  
  
Elrohir had seen it only through a haze, but he was sure of what had happened. Sauron had been driven off. For how long, only time would tell. He might return with a host of dark things to wage another battle, or he might abandon all hope of ever corrupting the Elves. They would have to prepare for either eventuality now. But not before a long rest. Elrohir turned to look at Kûan, who had knelt down beside him, and whose face offered a look that shared pride with concern. He smiled and closed his eyes. He felt dizzy now, and so weary. He needed rest. A long rest.  
  
Nôwê shook him again, but the feeling was far away, as if Elrohir's mind were detached from his body. His mind was awake, though barely and spinning dizzily, while his body felt almost invisible and made of mist. He struggled to open his eyes, but the world was spinning. Kûan, Nôwê and the others were little more than thin shadows dissolving into grey. _The world is disappearing!_ he cried, though silently and to himself only, and he felt the rise of panic until an absurd thought came to him. The world was disappearing. Was it being replaced? Had history been changed, and was he returning to his own time?  
  
That was the last thing that crossed his mind before he lost consciousness. 

* * *

Elvish words/phrases:   
Moriondur- servant of the dark one   
Tor- brother   
Kwindi Kuiwênenho...- Elves of Cuiviénen! Stand together and raise weapons against Sauron! Protect the land! 


	3. Four Rings 3

  
When Elrohir returned to consciousness, his head was spinning and throbbing with such a pain that he thought he might vomit. His vision was cloudy and unfocused, and his thoughts reeled. All he could remember was Sauron, the confrontation, and then a descent into blackness. As he blinked his eyes to slowly ease his way back into consciousness, all he could discern with his hands was that he was in a building made of smooth, cool stone. It was no primitive Elven construct.

He was sitting on a high stool with his upper body collapsed onto a window ledge, as if he had fainted. His arms were folded beneath his head. Groggily, he tried to sit upright, but the pain and dizziness were overwhelming. The best he could do was lift his head a little and squint hazily at the room. It was small, maybe a fifteen-foot square at best, and sparsely furnished. Apart from the stool that Elrohir occupied, there was a bare table and bench in one corner. A series of pegs lined the far wall, and on these pegs hung sacks that likely held food. There were two doors opposite each other on the walls to Elrohir's left and right.

As Elrohir looked at the doors, the one to his left opened and a tall Elf dressed in green entered. The Elf scowled before crossing to Elrohir and hauling him off the stool by his collar.

"Lucky this is your last day," the Elf snarled, "else I might recommend you for scout duty!"

"I am... sorry sir..." Elrohir managed. He was pulled roughly to his feet, struggling to remain standing despite his spinning, throbbing head. A cold sweat passed over his face and for a moment he feared he might black out again. But he did his best to steel and steady himself enough to glance up at the Elf's face, which looked familiar even through the haze that still lingered in his eyes. Haldir. This Elf was Haldir, whom he had met once in Lórien. The strange phrase "Warden of Nivrim" came to his mind.

"Well hurry on!" said Haldir, pulling Elrohir forward. He seemed to snarl again before muttering, half to himself, "...know not why this is my duty, to round up all you little shites. Why Galdhil sends you useless princelings up here anyway... More glory to his own line? Ha! Ought be content with your brother!"

Elrohir felt his stomach lurch. "My... my brother..."

Haldir continued pulling him forward, out the left door and onto the walkway. "Quit your fussing, You can see him before you run back to your parents at Menegroth." The words were mocking, but Elrohir hardly cared. Elladan was alive.

By the time Haldir finally released him, after pulling and pushing him a half-mile along the Fence from the storehouse to the nearest watchtower, Elrohir was feeling more alert. He could stand by himself without tottering, and his vision was beginning to restore. The pounding pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache. The clearer his mind grew, the more aware he became of his surroundings. He was on a high stone wall, and it was night time. The stars shone brightly overhead. To his left, on the battlement side of the wall, was a dull, flat plain. To his right was rich forestland. He began to realise, to a growing sense of fear, that he had no idea where he was. Or when he was.

The plain and the forest and most of all the wall were frighteningly unfamiliar. The very land itself was strange, and the stars. He looked up to the sky in hope for the sight of any constellation he had known in Imladris, but saw only cause for further despair. There was no moon. The sky was just as it had been at Cuiviénen, lit only by stars. The present world was entirely different from what Elrohir had known. Had he changed it so much? As he stared out over the vastness of the wall, a bitter sickness began to creep into his stomach. What he had done at Cuiviénen had changed the course of history so drastically that this was the new reality. Everything, from the land to the Elves and even the moon, had been altered somehow.

The language was different, Elrohir realised suddenly. When Haldir had spoken to him, it had not been in Sindarin, or the primitive speech of Cuiviénen, or any other Elvish tongue that Elrohir had ever heard, though still he understood it perfectly and was able to speak it back. He knew somehow that the name "Haldir" was the same in this language as it was in Sindarin. He was less sure of his own name. He also knew, in the back of his mind, that Haldir was his superior and had to be addressed as such.

A thousand questions flooded his head. First, and perhaps most important of all, what was this place? What was it called? Why was the wall here? Why was he here? He turned to ask Haldir, not caring how foolish he would seem, but stopped himself even as he opened his mouth to speak. The answers came to him one by one, as if being recalled from a dream.

The flat plain beyond the battlements was Argador, the Outside Land, while everything within was called Doriath, the Land of the Fence. Within Doriath was the chief city Elgarth, and at Elgarth's centre was the great cave city Menegroth, home of Dior the King. The wall, the Fence, had been built in the distant past to mark the borders of Doriath. It was divided into two sections: Nivrost the Westvale and Radhrost the Eastvale. Haldir was a warden of Nivrim, the Westmarch, and Elrohir had been sent to him for guard duty.

As these answers came to Elrohir, a shrill whistle sounded from atop the watchtower. "Captain is coming!" came a cry from above. Almost immediately, green-clad Elves began to filter out through the tower's doors to line up in ranks behind Haldir. Their garb was simple and functional, like Elrohir's own. Forty or so came, followed by five in the more regal uniform that Haldir wore. These were the wardens, and the forty were conscripts. All stood together to await the arrival of the captain who now led the way slowly up through the forest.

_ Who is the captain? _Elrohir asked himself. The answer came almost immediately. Beleg was the captain of Nivrim, and all the wardens at all the towers in Nivrim were under his command. He came leading new conscripts from Elgarth, just as he had four years earlier come leading Elrohir's company. Beleg's coming meant that now, having served his required term in the guard, it was time for Elrohir to go home. He had completed his training and was free to leave, unless he chose to stay on permanently as a guard. And though he knew somehow that Elladan had chosen the latter option, in the back of his mind he had an undeniable longing to return to Elgarth. Return, he sensed, to a life that was beginning to come to him in fragments and shards. With each passing minute, he remembered more, and more detailed, elements of his life in this altered world.

Elladan was here somewhere, he knew. Like Haldir, Elladan was a Warden of Nivrim, and served at this tower. A year ago he had gone back to Elgarth for his turn on leave, but now he returned with Beleg and the new conscripts to retake his position. Elrohir eagerly stared out over the parade of approaching soldiers. It seemed a terrible length of time since he had seen his brother last. Twenty or more long years, if he guessed correctly, had passed since the Ring took him from the time of Elladan's death in Imladris to the shifting of history with Sauron's defeat at Cuiviénen. Twenty or more years had passed since he had last seen Elladan alive.

His body tensed like a taut spring, watching and waiting even as the last of the new conscripts took their places behind Beleg. They were a collection of unfamiliar faces. Elladan was not one of them. The tall warden at Beleg's side was not Elladan, nor was the guard standing at the rear. Something was wrong. This entire place, in unnumbered ways, was wrong. Elrohir began to grow even sicker. It was his fault. He had done this, and he had to be the one to undo it. Of all the Elves on this Fence, and all the Elves in the entire great realm of Doreldin, only Elrohir knew that they were living in the wrong reality.

Even as the heavy feeling of despair fell on his shoulders, a name shouted out on the roll-call caught his attention.

"Eldimir iond-Elrodha!"

Elrohir looked at Haldir, who frowned back at him contemptuously. "That's you, isn't it," Haldir said. "Get going!" He pushed Elrohir forward into the line of dismissed conscripts, who were slowly making their way down from the Fence and to the road where Beleg stood. Each paused to bow to the captain and receive a token of merit for the time served: a black stone arrowhead pendant.

When it came Elrohir's turn to bow, Beleg asked, "Will you be returning to the Guard, or do you plan on taking up a trade back in Elgarth?"

Before Elrohir could reply, the warden at Beleg's side gave a mischievous smirk and answered for him. "No, this one will be in for the soft life of Menegroth! No doubt he shall end up a poet or minstrel. Or worse, a counsellor!"

Elrohir's cheeks and ears reddened and he stared down at the ground to hide his face. "Shut up," he muttered, then immediately gasped at himself for having the stupidity to say such a thing to one of his superiors. But the warden only laughed, and Beleg with him.

"Whatever the case," Beleg said, "I wish you only the best on the path you choose to take. Eldimir iond-Elrodha, you are hereby dismissed from the King's Guard."

Elrohir bowed again, and Beleg placed the arrowhead pendant around his neck. He was free. He moved aside quickly, taking care not to look up at the warden's smirking face. Of all the overwhelming emotions he felt at that moment, silly happiness was not one of them. He needed time alone to think and sort out what he did feel, and untangle all the worried thoughts spinning through his head. Elladan was missing. The place and time were unknown. History had changed radically. Everything was wrong and getting worse the more Elrohir learned.

He sat with his back to a sturdy tree and his eyes closed in hope that it would help calm his mind. He could sort through each thought and worry one at a time. First, the problem of Elladan. Haldir had said that Elladan would be here, therefore, he must be somewhere. He would ask Haldir next chance he had. Second, the place and time. This place was called Doriath, but it was not the Doriath of Beleriand Elrohir had studied in his history lessons. From the stars overhead, Elrohir guessed that this Doriath was at Cuiviénen. The Elves had never left to go West. Since there were no orcs, there was no danger, and they had no reason to leave. Since they did not leave, there was no Elvish civilisation in Valinor, Fëanor never made the Silmarilli, Morgoth never killed the Two Trees, and the Sun and Moon never rose. But that did not explain the Fence. From his memories, he only knew that it had been built in ancient times, and that it was under constant guard. He would have to ask about its origins in more detail when he returned to Elgarth.

As for the time, Elrohir knew by asking himself that he was 2554 years old. What that meant in terms of this new history, he was unsure. He was, though, beginning to understand the working of the Ring. He had been 2554 years old when Elladan died in Imladris, and when he had used the Ring to travel back to the first encounter between Elves of Cuiviénen and Sauron. The Ring had abandoned him there until he had managed to significantly change the course of history. Then, when the new future was secure, he had been shot forward through time to a specific point: the point he would be at had he lived his life in the altered history. He was still the same person, at the same age. Only the world had changed entirely to suit him.

But if Elrohir had succeeded in his quest, and there were truly no orcs, had history changed for the worse? Elladan was alive. He would have been told otherwise. And Haldir had said "parents", which meant his mother must be alive as well. There was no sun and no moon, but Elbereth's stars were bright overhead. All Elves lived together in peace in one kingdom. It was different, not necessarily worse. Just shockingly different. But Elrohir reasoned that once he saw Elladan and Arwen and Elrond and Celebrían, once he was at home and had time to adjust himself, it would not be so bad. If he had his family with him, he could learn to live in a different world. It was only worse when he was alone.

At the sound of someone approaching and sitting down next to him, Elrohir opened his eyes. The smirking warden, now wearing a friendly smile, looked back at him.

"You think I would let you head off without saying farewell?" the warden asked. He draped his arm across Elrohir's shoulders and pulled him into a loose embrace.

Elrohir pulled back almost immediately with a startled shout. He had expected a further joke, but not such an intimate gesture.

"Oh now!" said the warden, "Are you upset still that I teased you in front of Beleg? It is my solemn duty! What brothers do!"

Elrohir choked on his breath. "You are..." Elladan. The warden was Elladan, though he did not look like Elladan. His face and voice both held notes of familiarity, but still were entirely different. This Elladan's hair was straighter, his eyes paler, his nose thinner, his mouth smaller, and his cheeks and jaw line sharper. He looked more Elvish, Elrohir thought, and something occurred to him. There were no Men at Cuiviénen. Of course Elladan would look different, if there were no Men and therefore no Halfelven. Elrond would look different too. Their ancestry had been altered.

"I only play with you, you know." said Elladan. "You take everything so seriously. Your face looks as if you saw a balrog."

"Balrog?" Elrohir asked quietly. So there were balrogs in this reality. 

"Mm," said Elladan. "Did they ever show you to that burnt place where Thingol killed one in the last great war?"

A thin memory of such a place crossed Elrohir's mind. "Yes, I think so..."

"Over five thousand years and the grass still cannot grow back!" said Elladan. "I would wager it is some sort of curse, though Haldir reckons something from the balrog's carcass poisoned the land.."

Elrohir gave no answer. He stared hard at Elladan, trying to reconcile the stranger he saw with the brother he remembered.

Elladan laughed. "I suppose I am even more handsome than you remember, am I not? Or perhaps you could not find a mirror out here?"

"No, it..." Elrohir shook his head. "I've just not seen you in such a long time."

"I know," said Elladan. He squeezed Elrohir's arm before pulling him into a tight embrace. "And it is hardly fair you have to go right away when I only just returned. I thought we could have some good fun now that you have clearance to use all the weapons. But I shall have another leave period in three more years, and I promise when that time comes to spend every minute of it getting you into trouble with Dairon."

"Thank you," said Elrohir. He leaned against Elladan's shoulder, letting himself imagine that it was the same old familiar Elladan sitting beside him.

"And speaking of Dairon," Elladan continued, "he has planned some grand surprise for you, so make certain to wear your clean clothes and have your hair combed when you arrive at home. See Nani and Ada first; they will distract you while he readies everything. And by no means tell them I said anything."

"I will not."

Elladan smiled and kissed Elrohir's forehead before releasing him. "Good. And now..." He sighed, looking up at the watch tower. "I know Haldir wishes to leave, and I must go quickly to meet with him before taking my duties."

"Of course," said Elrohir. As he stood he was careful to look at the ground rather than the stranger who was Elladan.

"If you go to the storehouse there should be someone rationing food for the walk back to Elgarth. But you had best go soon so you get better fare than old apples and crumbly bread."

Elrohir nodded. "I will."

"Why so quiet?" Elladan asked with a frown. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Elrohir lied. "I am only tired and... sad that I had no more time to spend with you. I am sure I should be better when I return... home and see everyone."

"If you say so," said Elladan. He gave Elrohir's arm another squeeze. "I will write you this time, I promise. I will get Beleg to pester me relentlessly until I do. And if you wish to write me, Beleg is in Elgarth or Goldarost at least four times a year, so you can send a letter with him."

"I will," said Elrohir. A long line had already started to form at the entrance to the storehouse, and he looked from the line to Elladan and then back to the line again. "I had best go. So should you."

"Yes. But three years is hardly so long. It will be up before you realise, and I shall see you then. Goodbye!"

Elladan waved as he ran to the Fence and up the stairs that led into the watch tower. Elrohir watched him go. From the back he looked almost like Elladan, long black hair swaying as he ran. It made Elrohir wish for a mirror so that he could see the changes in his own face, and see if that strange reflection looked back at him. He lifted his hands to feel his eyes, nose, cheeks, and chin, but could tell only slight differences from touch alone. But, he supposed, a mirror could wait until he got to Elgarth. He headed toward the storehouse and turned his thoughts to how he was going to find his way home.

There were two principal cities in Doreldin: Elgarth and Goldarost. While Goldarost was thought to be the grander of the two cities, carved into the side of a rocky hill and built with intricate stonework, Elgarth was larger and more densely populated. And at the centre of Elgarth was the underground cave-maze Menegroth, home not only to King Dior and his large extended family, but also a large number of counsellors, servants, and others employed by the King.

Elrohir knew his family lived at Menegroth. He knew that his father, as Dior's grandson, was a respected counsellor. His mother and grandparents, as kin of Thingol, also had high standings. On the long walk back from his guard post, he began to remember the details of this life.

His name was no longer Elrohir, but Eldimir. He attributed this to the fact that he had seen no horses so far in Doriath. Elladan, likewise, could no longer be Elladan if the Halfelven race did not exist. His name here was Eldon. The names of the rest of his family were the same, though most had been altered slightly to suit the language of this place: Elroth, Celbrían, Celborn, Galdriel, Galdhon, Dairon. Dairon, he realised, had married Lúthien in place of Beren. Lúthien in this history was not half Maia, and had no special destiny. Here she was simply the daughter of the King who married a minstrel.

When Elrohir reached the gates of Menegroth, the guards bowed and let him pass, and a page ran ahead down the warmly lamp-lit corridors to announce his arrival. Elrohir followed behind. The passageways and grand rooms that flanked them all held a sense of comfortable familiarity, and as Elrohir passed on his way to his family's private quarters, he could attach a wispy memory to each place. He and Elladan had once built a blanket fort under the table in that room. The room to his left was where Dairon taught him how to play the harp. To his right and down three doors was where he met Beleg for the first time. Dior held counsel in the great hall down those steps.

He turned down a narrower side corridor, one with a high vaulted ceiling and ornate hanging lamps, and paused briefly in front of the door to a the room he knew was his. But a door further down was open, prompting him to reconsider. The page must have gone in that door. Someone would be waiting for him. He continued on ahead and glanced through the doorway before entering. Inside, the page bowed to a silver-haired woman seated at a desk. Elrohir cleared his throat, and Celbrían looked up at him with a broad smile. He grinned back at her.

"Eldimir!" She stood, taking a step forward.

Elrohir ran to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as she hugged his waist. "I missed you, Nani." It had been years since he had last seen Elladan, but even longer since he had last seen his mother. She was exactly as he remembered. Her face had not changed, nor the feel of her embrace. She was the first solidly comforting presence in the altered history, and Elrohir held her close until she laughed joyfully.

"I suppose this is to make up for four years' worth of lost hugs, is it not?" she asked.

"Yes," said Elrohir. He gave her one final squeeze before letting go and stepping back.

Celbrían lifted a hand to her son's cheek. "You look as handsome as ever," she said, "though a bit on the thin side. I hardly think they feed you very well out at that wall. I remember thinking the same thing of Eldon when he first came back on his leave."

"It is hard to feed so many soldiers," Elrohir explained, but Celbrían wanted no excuses. She took his arm and led him back to the doorway.

"Come with me," she said, "we will find your father and Arwen, and we can all have supper together, where I can watch and make certain you eat well."

Elrohir grinned. "You worry too much, Nani."

Celbrían smirked back at him. "What sort of mother would I be otherwise?"

They met Elroth and Arwen coming down the corridor. The faces of his father and sister were strange, but not as shocking to Elrohir as Elladan had been. He had seen them before, in his mind's eye. He recognised them as family, even if they were a different family from the one he had previously known. They were still his family.

"Finally you are home!" Arwen cried. She threw her arms around Elrohir's neck just as Elroth pulled the both of them into a smothering embrace. "It seems forever since I saw you last!"

"It seems the same for me," said Elrohir.

"It's good to have you home again," said Elroth.

Elrohir nodded. "I am glad to be."

"Are you hungry at all?" asked Arwen. "Supper is all ready; we were waiting for you."

"Yes, right this way, we will get you something to eat." Celbrían nudged at his arm, steering him toward a pair of doors at the far end of the corridor.

"Ought I not change first?" he asked. "I am still wearing my travelling clothes."

Celbrían shook her head. "Not a worry. Supper comes first."

Elrohir had no choice but to let himself be pushed and pulled along to the doors, which Elroth threw open grandly to mark his arrival. A roaring cheer came from the small room beyond. Two hundred or more people, family and courtiers, had crowded around heartily-decked banquet tables to celebrate Elrohir's return to Menegroth. Even with Elladan's warning, Elrohir had no need to act surprised and stare in wonder at the sheer number of guests Dairon had managed to conjure. Some of them he recognised, but most he did not, though he could not be sure whether that was because he had not yet remembered them or because he truly was seeing them for the first time.

At the front of the crowd stood Dior himself, clad in Doriath's regal silver. He nodded warmly to Elrohir, who in turn bowed low. Then as if on cue, the crowd's noise subsided and Dior began to speak.

"Eldimir, prince of Menegroth and third-son of the King," he said in a voice both kind and commanding. "Having now completed your required term of service on the marches, you are relieved of duty by the laws of this land. Your obligation is met, and you are henceforth free to pursue the calling most fitting to you, lest only war call you back to arms. I release you." From the draping sleeve of his mantle he pulled a scroll. Elrohir took it, to a tremendous cheer from the guests, and kissed the signet ring on Dior's right hand.

"Thank you, sir."

Dior smiled at him. "Welcome home," he said, his voice dropping to more familial tones. "Now I think we should eat, before all this glorious food goes cold."

The King's place was set at the head of the first table, but Elrohir was free to choose his own seat. He situated himself between his mother and Dairon. His table filled quickly with family, and the other two with friends, and still some thirty or so guest were left to stand with plates in their hands, circulating along the walls. A buzz of happy conversation filled the room.

Dairon spoke to Elrohir as soon as they were seated. "I suppose you have not quite made up your mind yet," he said. "But now that you are past your turn of duty you are entitled to start a full apprenticeship. You were always a good student, with a mind for music. And if you considered that... I would be more than happy to take you on."

"Thank you," said Elrohir. "I shall think on it. I have really not given anything much consideration yet, but I suppose I ought to start." He had given no consideration, he thought to himself, being entirely unaware of what would be required of him in this world. Now he was expected to make a life-altering decision. He needed more time to think, and to remember. Had he planned anything? What had his goals been? If Dairon thought him a talented musician, did he have other worthy skills?

Dairon's next words halfway answered that worry for him. "Also," Dairon said reluctantly as he pulled three scrolls from the folds of his cloak, "I have some letters. These arrived for you recently, and I must admit I am afraid to hand them over, in case they contain offers far more interesting than mine. This one-" he held up the first scroll; "is from the lore masters. It seems they have been waiting a very long time for you to get over with your conscription and are eager for you to join their ranks. You will want to ignore this second one, from the palace guard. They send it to everyone in hope that some poor boy will be foolish enough to subject himself to a life of extreme boredom, standing at the gates of Menegroth all day. But the third looks very interesting- all the way from Fainor in Goldarost. Had you considered becoming a smith?"

"I... I cannot..." He honestly could not remember. Curiously, he took the scroll bearing the mark of Fainor, a single star, and turned it over in his hand. He moved to open it, but a disapproving tut from his mother cut his action short.

"Stars, Dairon, do not force that upon him now!" said Celbrían. "Let him eat in peace and enjoy one day at home before he has to decide such things."

"Of course you are right," said Dairon, deferring to her. He nudged Elrohir, who stuck the unopened scrolls into his belt. "We shall eat first."

The meal and subsequent celebration went well, if a bit overlong. Elrohir found himself being introduced or reintroduced to what seemed like the entire population of Menegroth and more. The guest list read like a chapter from one of the history books he had studied in his youth in Imladris. In the space of an hour, he spoke with Dairon, Lúthien, Elurin, Dior, Nimloth, Galdhon, Elwing, and one named Orthinel, whom he suspected to be the history's equivalent to Eärendil, though the man's hair was dark and he had always heard Eärendil described as golden. By the time the evening ended, Elrohir was so exhausted he felt as if he could fall asleep in an instant. But he forced himself to stay awake and alert as he kissed his mother and father and Arwen goodnight and retreated to his bedroom. He needed to look at the scrolls.

Dior's scroll was nothing more than an official seal of release, the same as was given to all conscripts who chose to return to the cities rather than stay on at the Fence as a warden. The letter from the lore masters was pompous and overly wordy, and Elrohir only opened the letter from the palace guard as a matter of respect, even if he chose not to read it. It was Fainor's letter that interested him most. He edged it open, and read the elegantly written and sparsely worded script

Eldimir-

It has been some time since you were last in Goldarost, but I do not easily forget such dedication and subtlety of skill as you showed in your youth. The talent grows otherwise thin in our noble family. Now having completed your service on the Fence, I trust you are eligible to be apprenticed. I accept few to my teaching, but if your skills still hold, I would have you come to my workshop to begin your training as soon as you may.

-Fainor

It was more of a demand than a question, and Fainor was clearly not one accustomed to being refused. Elrohir read the letter several times over. Only on the fourth reading did he realise Fainor's letter, along with the other three, was written in an alphabet entirely different from what he previously knew. He scarcely cared. He was holding in his hands an invitation to study metalcraft with the greatest smith ever known. The though of it made him light-headed. Not only for the sake of learning, but also for more selfish, darker reasons.

The new history he had created was so far liveable. The differences could be shocking, but the longer he faced them, the more comfortable they became. He could learn to adapt; he was sure of it. But, he had only lived in his new world for a handful of days. After a longer stretch of time, what imperfect secrets would he uncover? Elladan had mentioned balrogs. Dior had spoken of the possibility of war. The possible dangers in this land were so far unknown, and Elrohir was left with no way of reversing what he had done should things once again go wrong.

He needed the Ring of Time. On his walk back from the Fence, he had run over the possibility, however slim, of locating Celebrimbor and somehow forging another. The thought that Celebrimbor, like Elladan and Celebrían, might be alive kept his hope burning. He had so far heard nothing of Celebrimbor, but now the letter from Fainor offered a very possible new avenue.

And, Elrohir decided, he was going to explore it to whatever end.


	4. Four Rings 4

With every passing day, Elrohir was beginning to forget. Little by little, so subtly he almost failed to realise it, memories of his old life in Imladris were fading. They were being replaced by memories from his new life. The shift in time was correcting itself. It was almost as if the previous history, the entire known history of the Eldar, had never existed. Elrohir had erased it.

For many nights he had stayed up in his bedroom well after everyone else had gone to sleep, writing out page after page of everything he could remember from the old reality. He had already forgotten some of the details. There were holes here and there where the path of events eluded him. But as much as he could remember, he wrote, in the Sindarin language that was already becoming difficult, and the Tengwar that had already started to look strange to his new eyes. He took special care to write perfectly what had happened to Elladan, and what he had done in the past at Cuiviénen to change the present.

After seventeen nights of writing, the manuscript was finished, and Elrohir was ready to return to Fainor in Goldarost and continue his apprenticeship. He left the papers in his bedroom, carefully hidden beneath layers of blankets and clothing at the bottom of a wooden chest.

Goldarost was a considerable walk from Elgarth, and vastly different from the tree-lined avenues and canopy walkways that surrounded Menegroth. Goldarost was a Noldorin city. It had been built around a rocky hill near a stone quarry, and boasted towers and spires that reached halfway to the clouds. The peaks were visible from miles away. In direct opposition to the Telerin fondness for underground dwellings, the Noldor liked to outdo themselves with taller and taller structures. All of it was made of stone.

Fainor's stone house, with a relatively small tower, was situated toward the centre of the city. Elrohir followed the winding path up the hill, passing courtyards and gardens, markets and fountains. He crossed through the city square. Perfect stone likenesses of the kings of Doreldin, larger than life, stood here in a semicircle around a shallow pool. On the far left, Kûan, the first king, dressed in primitive furs. The plaque at his feet read, "Killed in battle by an arrow to the heart." To his right, his son, Nôwê, "Died of wounds inflicted by the balraug he slew." Nôwê had no children, so the crown had passed to his cousin, Elu, "Captured by enemy fiends and beheaded." On the far right of the semicircle stood Dior, hands lifted in a benign and welcoming pose. He had taken the crown in place of his mother, and his reign had so far lasted longer than the three previous kings combined. Dior was no warrior. He had not yet faced his chance to be killed.

Fainor's house was within sight of the square, and Fainor must have been waiting for him, because the door swung open almost as soon as Elrohir knocked. Fainor nodded, his standard, perfunctory greeting. "Welcome back." He took Elrohir's cloak and pack.

"Thank you," said Elrohir. As he stepped into the house, he was greeted by the familiar, mingling smells of hot iron, charred wood, and burnt leather, which had grown oddly pleasing to him.

"I suppose your days at home were enjoyable. How is your family?" Fainor's words came out of expected courtesy only, and they sounded so.

"All well," Elrohir answered. "Though unfortunately, my brother is still out on the Fence. I had no chance to see him."

"Hm," said Fainor. "When is he due home?"

"In two years."

"You may take another leave when he next returns to Elgarth."

Elrohir nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

With the standard conversation quickly concluded, Fainor sat down at the table at the far end of the room and grabbed a slice of bread from an open basket. He motioned for Elrohir to do the same. "Well," he started, "now that you're back, I can get on with a few more projects I've been waiting to do. I could use an extra pair of hands. I was thinking... you've shown yourself too advanced for the simple tasks I've so far given you. We could leave the functional blades for now and move on to finer, more decorative items."

Elrohir had, in his old life, received some training in the forge. The techniques he had learned were with him still. Techniques which, though considered standard and simple in Third Age Imladris, had not yet been discovered in the new history. Fainor never said anything, but Elrohir could tell that he was impressed by these seemingly natural and intuitive talents. He would also never admit that he was learning from Elrohir even as Elrohir was learning from him.

The project Fainor had in mind was to make a new kind of metal, which he referred to in conversation as "istildin", that would brilliantly reflect starlight but remain otherwise unnoticeable. He had been working at it, bit by bit, for the past twenty or more years, and was no closer to creating his desired end than the day he started. He showed Elrohir his progress: a collection of failed samples. None was close to what he desired. Each was dismissed as too dark, too brittle, or too soft, and none had the needed reflective properties.

Elrohir studied the pieces on the table in Fainor's workshop. He picked one up in his hand, turned it over, and examined the composition. Fainor watched him with a curiously smug smile, at once certain that he would be unable to offer any advice but still hopeful of any suggestion. "What have you been using as the base for these?" Elrohir asked. "Silver?"

"Mostly, yes."

Elrohir turned the piece of metal over again. "Any mithril?"

"Mithril?"

"It's paler than silver, and has a finer sheen to it... I would guess it would do well for what you're attempting."

Fainor stepped closer. "Never heard of it."

For a moment, Elrohir was stunned. He looked up at Fainor in surprise, trying to imagine how the finest of Elven smiths could not know what mithril was.

"Where did you learn of such a thing?" Fainor asked.

"Learn of it?" Elrohir asked. "I don't know, I suppose I just..." He stopped, trying to think of exactly when and where he had first heard of mithril. To his confusion, he could not. Now that he thought of it, he could not recall anyone ever mentioning such a thing, or showing him. "I don't know," he said again, slowly. "It must have been... must have been something Eöl said to me once.."

Fainor scowled. "Eöl. Of course. He would have a thing like that..."

Eöl, Elrohir suddenly remembered, was Fainor's constant rival, and the chief factor behind the concept of istildin. It had been the unveiling of Eöl's spectacular black galvorn that had prompted Fainor to attempt his own signature alloy. Eöl's success had been a thorn in Fainor's side ever since.

"Sorry," said Elrohir.

"It is hardly important," Fainor muttered. He gathered the samples from the table and stowed them back in his chest of failed experiments. The chest, Elrohir noticed, was near overflowing.

"So..." Elrohir dared to venture, "...what else can we do?"

"The usual," grunted Fainor. "Stoke the fires. I have blades commissioned."

Elrohir did as he was told, and said nothing further. There was never any use in talking when Fainor was in a foul mood.

In Fainor's house, hours flew by quickly, but seasons dragged on. Two years took a long time to pass. Day after day, it was only ever the two of them at the table for breakfast, at the forge all day, and at the table for supper. Fainor's wife had left him long ago to live with her sister. His sons were grown and gone. Maglaur had married a woman in Elgarth, and his visits home were few and far between. Maidros guarded the Fence. He had not been seen in Goldarost in over seventy years. Curfinu, who lived in the city, was the only one who came round frequently enough to be called a regular visitor.

It was through a curious friendship of Curfinu's that Eöl's son, Maiglin, could be found at Fainor's table on the eve of Elrohir's departure back to Goldarost. Unlike their fathers, Curfinu and Maiglin had recognised that their interests could be served better through collaboration than suspicious secrecy. They worked often together. Fainor was, therefore, slow to speak of his work to Curfinu, lest Maiglin somehow discover his secrets and report back to Eöl. Sometimes even Elrohir was left uncertain of the true purpose of their projects. Fainor trusted Elrohir, but only in his guarded, distant way; Elrohir was, after all, Maiglin's great-grandson. He had closer ties to that branch of the family.

Still, Elrohir felt less comfortable with Maiglin than with Fainor. For deep reasons he could not quite place, he never found Maiglin to be completely trustworthy. He seemed the sort to keep secrets, and not only the trade secrets that went with life as a smith. It was as if he were concealing a darker part of himself, while Fainor, for all his gruff arrogance, was at least honest. Fainor was never the kind of man to say one thing and mean another. If Elrohir made a mistake in his work, Fainor never hesitated to correct him. He seemed to genuinely want Elrohir to achieve the greatest possible result. But the few days he had trained with Curfinu, Maiglin had watched and stayed silent while Elrohir chose the wrong tools, deliberately allowing him to fail in order to arrange an unfair comparison in their finished products. Maiglin was not above cheating to get what he wanted.

So, when he had packed his things for the journey back to Elgarth, Elrohir spent as little time as politely possible saying his farewells. He was more interested in getting home, and especially in seeing Elladan again, than arguing over alloys with Maiglin and Fainor. He clasped Fainor's hand, and nodded to Maiglin and Curfinu.

"I will look forward to your return," said Fainor, and Elrohir knew he meant it. He knew Fainor had come to think of him not only as a student but also as a sort of substitute for family. Apart from Curfinu, occasionally, there was no-one else.

Elrohir forced the pang of sadness that always came with these kinds of thoughts to the back of his mind. He had grown to care about Fainor. But at the moment, he cared about Elladan more. "I will be back soon enough," he said.

"Please give my regards to my father, if you should see him," said Maiglin.

"I will," Elrohir answered. "Though as he never comes to Menegroth any more, it is unlikely our paths will cross." His voice sounded stiffer, and colder, than he would have liked.

Maiglin gave him a usual, guarded half-smile. Before anything further could be said, Elrohir turned, and was out the door. He let his irritation with Maiglin, however unfounded, hasten his steps, until he was almost running by the time he reached the Square of the Kings. Dior's stone face smiled down at him as he hurried past. He broke into a true run.

A single thought occupied his mind as he walked the long road from Goldarost to Elgarth; Elladan would already be home. The last letter Elladan had sent had been written just before his second-last shift at the lookout. When the letter reached Goldarost, Elladan would have been over halfway home. Now he would be home for certain, and would be sitting by the fire with the family telling grand tales of his near-death adventures on the Fence. Elrohir smiled. He would walk without resting if he had to, to quicken his journey.

He could tell, somehow, that something was wrong even before he opened the door. The room beyond was too quiet. There was no crackling fire, and no laughter. Only the quiet hum of murmured words filtered through the wood. Elrohir's hand shook as he pushed at the handle. The door swung open.

The first thing he saw was the back of a dark-haired man in a green cape. _Elladan_, he thought, then, _No, not Elladan._ The man was too tall. _Beleg. _To Beleg's left, standing in profile so that Elrohir could see his face, was Haldir. At the creak of the door, both turned to look at him, sombre and unsmiling. No-one spoke.

In the corner, Celbrían was crying, or Elrohir guessed she was. Her face was covered by her hands. Elroth stood behind her, with Arwen, and both wore an ashen look of shock. Elrohir needed only look at them to know why Haldir and the others were there. A sickness began to churn in his stomach.

"You should sit down, Eldimir," said Haldir

"Why?" whispered Elrohir. "So you can tell me my brother is dead?" He looked from Haldir to Beleg, who exchanged a quick glance. "That's why you're here, isn't it..."

"We don't know for certain-" Beleg started, though a sharp hiss from Haldir cut his words short."

Celbrían let out a long sob. Elroth gripped her shoulders fiercely.

"He was not killed," said Haldir. "Captured."

The word hit Elrohir like a blow to the chest. Captured was worse than killed. Killed, at least, usually meant an immediate death by an arrow to the heart or head. "Did you at least-" he began.

Haldir shook his head. "It is too late, Eldimir. He'll be dead by now. There's no hope."

"You do not know that!" Elrohir shouted.

"I know, and you do as well, what they will do to him. What I am sure they have already done."

"Haldir..." said Beleg. He had his hand over his mouth and was looking at Celbrían, who stared back with red, wet eyes.

"What will they do?" she asked quietly.

"My Lady..." Beleg said.

"What will they do to my son!"

Haldir tensed. He looked at the floor while mumbling his answer. "They want to... they want to learn the secret to Elven immortality. If he is still alive after they drain most of his blood..." He coughed, and took a breath, as if thinking how best to phrase his answer. "We have found bodies of their prisoners. All... hands cut off, or whole limbs missing... skin pulled away... Their mouths and eyes were burned or stitched shut."

Celbrían's wail echoed from the walls. Elroth knelt down beside her, crushing her in a protective and possessive embrace. Beleg, now as pale and sick-looking as Elroth, cupped his head in his hand and leaned against the wall.

Elrohir could hear no more of it. He left his family, slamming the door shut behind him, and ran to his own bedroom. Elladan was dead, or as good as dead. It was Elrohir's fault. That thought caught him off-guard, but he knew somehow that it was true. _How is it my fault?_ he asked himself, but there was no certain answer. It simply was. He was the one responsible for this horrible end.

Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest object, a candlestick, and flung it across the room. The metal bent, but did not break. He grabbed the earthenware wash bowl from his table. It shattered perfectly, sending a rain of shards onto the stone floor. Its matching cup followed. All through the room, Elrohir's rage drove him to take everything he could reach and destroy it in whatever way he could manage. He overturned chairs and tables, smashing their delicate legs. He pulled out old clothes still left in his wardrobe, tearing off sleeves and ripping any seams that would give. He found a bundle of papers folded up at the back. He was about to shred them as well, when a strange thing caught his eye.

The papers were written with words he could not read.

He knew that he had written them, and remembered doing so. It had been two years earlier. But now that he saw his work, he had no recollection of what he had written, or why it was in this foreign alphabet. The letters were a series of long, flowing swoops and curves, accented with dots and curls. It looked, he mused, like something Fainor had been working on that had made its way into his chest of failed and abandoned projects. Was it something Fainor had taught him that he had already forgotten? It was possible. His memory had been so patchy at times these past few years that he often wondered if he was entirely sane.

But Fainor's name in association with these papers seemed right. So did Elladan's. Written on the papers was something about Elladan: something Elrohir needed to know. He could remember that much. It was important. A spark of hope flickered in his mind, along with an unsatisfied itch of a forgotten quest. It was unreasonable hope, but there all the same. He needed to find out what it meant, and find out what he had forgotten.

Celbrían made no objection to his early departure back to Fainor. She could scarcely look at him when he went to say goodbye. He looked too much like Elladan.

Elroth, though, begged him to stay. He could not bear the though of losing one son forever and the other for two more years. Elrohir was all that remained to remind him of Elladan.

Arwen, like her mother, was silent. She had withdrawn to her bedroom to grieve in privacy, but still, like her father, wished that Elrohir would stay. She would need him when the void left by Elladan's death became too unbearable.

But Elrohir's mind was set. He had the papers safely packed with his things. The sooner he took them to Fainor, the sooner he would know what he had to do. For Elladan's sake, it could not wait. He left as soon as he said his farewells, and returned to Goldarost as quickly as he could manage. Dior's stone smile seemed forced this time as he passed.

By luck, Fainor was not working when Elrohir came to the house, but sitting at the table with a book and a bowl of plums. He glanced up with a look of confusion, which quickly turned to a look of worry.

"Eldimir... what is wrong?"

Elrohir already had the manuscript in his hands. He sat down heavily in the chair across from Fainor, and as he did, he started to shake. "My brother..." he said. "My brother..."

With only those words, Fainor seemed to understand. He sat back in his chair, watching Elrohir carefully, and waited for him to continue.

"He is dead," said Elrohir. "My father said... Beleg told him... the enemy, a small band of them, attacked and scaled the Fence with ropes. Their aim was to take captives. They took four, and Eldon was one of them... He will be dead by now." A sudden tear fell from his cheek and landed on the paper in his hands.

"I am sorry," Fainor said quietly.

Elrohir nodded, sniffing and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "This is my fault."

"How could it be your fault?"

"I do not know. It just..." Elladan was dead, when he had the power to prevent it. It was his fault. The guilt and sadness threatened to overwhelm him, with every emotion he had ever refused to feel striking mercilessly at his weakened defence, and the weight was unbearable. Piece by piece, as Fainor watched, his composure snapped. He leaned over the table, rested his head on his arms, and broke down in sobs.

"You cannot think it is your fault at all..."

Elrohir felt Fainor's uncertain hand come to rest on his elbow. Wordlessly, he shoved the bundle of papers across the table.

"What is this?" Fainor asked.

"I am not sure," said Elrohir. He raised his head only enough to look at Fainor through wet eyelashes. "I found it in my wardrobe. I remember writing it, but... I cannot read it."

Carefully, Fainor studied the pages. He turned from one to the next, then back, occasionally stopping to run his fingers over the words. "Where did you learn to write like this?" he asked.

"I do not know," Elrohir answered. "I have no memory of ever knowing that script. But I thought... I think I remember seeing something like that here, once."

"I did not think I ever showed it to you," Fainor murmured. "I recognise many of these letters, but..." His voice trailed off into silence, and he flipped through the pages again.

"Can you read it?"

Fainor shook his head. "No."

Elrohir's heart sank. If Fainor could not read it, there was little hope of anyone else ever deciphering it.

"What I mean is, while I know- I think I know- what most of the letters are, they do not make any words that I can read." He paused to tap the paper for a moment, then stood up. "I will be right back."

He left Elrohir then, and returned a few minutes later with a handful of his own papers, which he spread out across the table between them. These papers were covered with the same kinds of letters used in Elrohir's manuscript. Some of them were crossed out and redrawn, and some were arranged into what must have been words. "Have I shown you this before?" Fainor asked.

"It looks familiar," Elrohir said, which it did. Only he could not say whether it looked familiar because he had seen these exact pages before or because he had seen the letters in his own writing.

"I have been working on this for so long I am beginning to think it will never be finished. It is a new alphabet, and one that I think will make structurally more sense than what we use now... once I have finished with it. The placement of the strokes and curves follow a specific pattern. And what I have listed on this latest sheet-" he moved one of the papers so it lay directly in front of Elrohir- "matches almost exactly the letters you have used. I must have shown you this before... though I do not remember..."

"You must have," Elrohir agreed. How else could he have learned Fainor's script? "But you still cannot read the words?"

Fainor looked at Elrohir's pages again, and sighed. "No. Do you mind if I keep this a while? Study it? It could be that the letters are simply arranged in a new way, or they do not exactly match what I have here. This could be T while this is F, you see, where I have them reversed..."

"You may keep it," said Elrohir. "I only want to know what it says." He lay his head down on the table again. Fainor could not read what he had written. Hope was dwindling.

He could hear Fainor carefully set the papers down onto the table. "I'm sorry," Fainor said softly. "I forgot... your... I was carried away by this stupid project. You probably have no interest in listening to me ramble about writing reform at a time like this."

"I do not mind," Elrohir sighed.

"No, it was careless of me. You need quiet and time to rest now, not this old obsession."

Numbly, Elrohir stood. Fainor was right. He felt weak from exhaustion, as if he would never have the strength to pull himself from this grave of sorrow, deep as it was. He had slept only a few broken hours since Beleg and Haldir had brought the news. He doubted he could sleep now, but he could try. 

"Let me know if you need anything," Fainor said. "Food or tea..."

"Thank you," said Elrohir. He picked up his pack, and headed up the stairs to his bedroom.

By the time Elrohir came back down, much later, Fainor was still at the table with the pages of strange writing. He appeared to have made some progress. The pages Elrohir had brought were covered in little marks, most scratched out, as Fainor tried and retried his attempts at deciphering.

"Did you sleep at all?" Fainor asked.

"No," said Elrohir. It had been impossible to sleep while his mind kept drifting to the very places he was trying to escape. "Did you learn anything of the papers?"

Fainor grinned, though it flickered, as if nagged by the guilt of enjoying himself despite Elrohir's position. "Some," he said, and he beckoned Elrohir to sit. "I was going about it all wrong, thinking of it more in terms of a code to be broken, where this letter matches with that, and so on. When, in fact, what we have..." He paused to reach for a paper that was covered in his notes of translation. "It is an entirely different language," he continued. "Similar to ours, but still far enough removed to give me some trouble. This word, for example, here... Lúmia? I can only guess. It appears to contain the root for 'time', but otherwise... Is it a name?"

"Lúmya," Elrohir whispered. It sounded familiar, like something from a story he had heard long ago. "The Ring of Time..."

"Yes," said Fainor. "That phrase appears too. Maybe you should read this." 

He passed the first few pages to Elrohir, which now had scratches of small but readable runes in lines between each line of foreign letters. Elrohir read the first simple line:

_Elladan was killed by orcs as they journeyed to enter the valley of Imladris in late spring of the year 2684 in the Third Age.  
_  
An old memory began to rise to the surface of his thoughts. It was mid-afternoon. They were riding through the trees.

"How much could you translate?" he asked Fainor.

"Only those three pages so far. But now that I know how to proceed, it should go somewhat more easily."

Elrohir scanned what Fainor had already done, and glanced to the pile of unfinished papers. So many remained left to do. "Can I help?"

Fainor looked at him hesitantly. "Are you... are you certain you feel up to the task? It is tiring work, having to guess and fit so many letters into words we can read."

"Yes," said Elrohir. He sat down at the table. "Tell me what to do." This was what he needed: not rest, and not solitude, but something to occupy his mind and keep his thoughts away from Elladan. The translation effort was ideal. Not only would it require his full concentration, but he would also be working toward a goal he needed to reach.


End file.
